


Prizes and Crowns

by Mtorolite



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, Slow Burn, Well - Freeform, disdain to friends to lovers, slowish burn, tags updated as fic continues
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-03
Updated: 2017-09-15
Packaged: 2018-09-21 17:35:12
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,239
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9559814
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mtorolite/pseuds/Mtorolite
Summary: As the Company enters the Forest of Mirkwood, Thorin and Bilbo reflect on the Quest and on each other. Disdain turns slowly to a grudging respect, and respect turns just as surely to something more. But feelings alone will not let Bilbo forget the Shire or the madness that grips the King, and a tender spot for his Burglar will not stop Thorin from remembering his people or his duty.





	1. The Taste of Sunlight

Only two days into the trees of Mirkwood, and the Company was reacting to the stress. The path wandered and turned, the sun was invisible save for shafts of light sprinkled here and there, the babbling of a brook, unreachable, taunted them and their thirst. Thorin Oakenshield closed his eyes, and remembered the taste of sunlight. 

* * * * * * *

The Lone Lands, before Rivendell but far outside of Bree, were peppered with remnants: remnants of Men’s towers and citadels, patches of roads, the odd tumbledown farm building, and once, an orchard.  
The Company had come upon it a day or two after the trolls, before the mad dash to Rivendell. Gandalf was once again busying himself with looking ahead, and Bombur had turned his ankle on a loose stone as the company made their way down a ravine. They had found another shell of a stone barn, and Thorin determined this was as good a place as any to camp. Immediately pillowing his head on some undergrowth and his swollen foot on a raised stone, Bombur dozed off, leaving Oin and Gloin to muck about with the fire, Bifur and Bofur to manage the ponies, and the rest of the Company to make their own dinner and beds out of the wind.  


The Burglar, Master Baggins, had thumped his fussy little backpack and bedroll down near the wall on a likely looking patch of greenery, before Fili and Kili, crowing with laughter, asked if he fancied turning red and itchy all the way to Erebor. Balin had patiently shown the hobbit the distinctive shape of the thunderwood leaves, and Bilbo quickly removed himself to a spot less sheltered by the remaining walls, but more safe for his tender halfling skin.  
Thorin had watched, vaguely bemused, vaguely irritated, at the odd little burglar the wizard had seen fit to saddle him with. Nori could have filled the spot of Burglar in a trice, but that lucky number fourteen - Thorin had been willing to risk no more Dwarf Lords or younglings on this quest, and Ered Luin would feel the loss of his thirteen enough without stripping them of another worker. So he had agreed to accept Gandalf’s pick, and had consoled himself for the past fortnight that at least their fourteenth man was a hobbit, not an elf.  


Funny little figure that he was, fussing about pocket- handkerchiefs and walking sticks, hiding his pale body from the others when they paused for a wash, only now gaining some kind of report with his companions, awkward and lost on his pony, round and soft and delicate and honey-golden among Thorin’s dwarves, the King was sure that the hobbit would be the first to fall, either turning back, becoming ill, falling in battle, or being the next to take a bad turn. Either way, Thorin would not be responsible for his fate, as he had coldly promised the wizard back in the smial under the hill.  
Thorin turned to brood over the map and wonder about the journey ahead, as his company went about the business of making camp.

With Bombur out of commission for the day, Bilbo was pitching in with Fili, Kili, and Ori to cobble together some kind of stew for supper. Not being as familiar with the food stores or cooking for fourteen as Bombur was, they nonetheless assembled the ingredients for a rough stew: Ori began chopping carrots and parsnips from their stores, Bilbo helped Fili and Kili chop and shred dried beef, and measured out a quantity of salt. Then, each Prince carrying a bucket, and Ori and Bilbo carrying the cooking cauldron that was Bombur’s pride and joy between them, they made their way through a stand of trees to a brook that burbled over grey stones.  
In the stand of trees, BIlbo spotted some sage, and made Ori pause so he could stuff his pockets with it; thinking, perhaps, he could add some to this evening’s supper, and maybe have some left to add some flavor to their hurried lunch as well. Stripping the plants of their golden-edged leaves, Bilbo also noticed a blob of purple nestled among them.  


He picked it up and squeezed it gently; a plum; a bit overripe, to be sure, but a plum nonetheless. And another, over there - he looked around properly at the trees, and realized they had found themselves in an orchard long abandoned, but fruiting still.  
Fili and Kili would not listen to Ori or him to come and help them gather the fruit until Bilbo showed off his skill at conkers by hitting the crown prince in the back of his royal head with a plum stone (and the plum juice staining the Burglar’s chin). Bringing back water for cooking and washing, the four then returned to the orchard; Bilbo gathering the fallen fruit into his coat, as Fili and Kili shook trees and hung from the branches to loosen the fruit; Ori contented himself with reaching up to grab what fruit he could, and adding to Bilbo’s pile. They kept at it until Dwalin, a poor cook at the best of times, shouted for them to come back because the stew was doing something (Boiling, it was, and Bilbo burned several of his fingers trying to help Dwalin take the cauldron off the fire).  


Bombur had recovered enough to eat, but not to help, and it was Balin and Dori and Nori who helped Bilbo bake the plums roughly in the outer coals of the fire. Oversweet though it was, it was the best dessert the company had experienced in weeks, and Bilbo and the young dwarves were congratulated all around for the find.

Thorin unbent himself from his map enough to give a few kind words to the hobbit and his nephews, a mere pleasantry, before brooding more thoroughly on his map and the dangers that lay before them. Three mountain trolls had nearly wiped them all out, and if not for the wizard - all right, yes, the Burglar with his talk of tubes and parasites had helped as well, but the Burglar had also gotten them into the mess in the first place - his Quest would have ended most ignobly. Not to mention the secret of the door seemed mightily unsolvable, and the Arkenstone was lost amid thousands of tonnes of other treasures and dragonflesh. 

Finally, with the embers of the fire banked, Thorin reminded Dwalin and Dori to wake him and Bombur up for second watch, and the would-be King Under the Mountain wrapped himself in his furs and bedroll, and went to sleep.

A few hours of confusing dreams later - Smaug a troll, trolls on piles of treasure, Bilbo held between dragon claws, about to be ripped asunder, face drained of blood and pleading silently for help, the taste of baked plums and parsnip stew, Fili and Kili, their faces stained with blood and plum juice - Dori shook the King awake, as Dwalin reminded Bilbo that watches were only helpful if someone was up and watching. These two rolled themselves into their own bedrolls, leaving the Thorin and the Burglar sitting near the fire on their own watch for the night.

Mr. Baggins was the first to speak.

“Since Bombur is hurt, and all, and since you never - that is, I am never given a regular turn on the watches, I volunteered, you see, for tonight’s watch.”

Thorin grunted his acknowledgement, and rolled his shoulders to try to release the tension that gathered there. At least, if something did come upon them during the watch, he could count on the hobbit to scream in fear, even if he could not defend the camp. It might rouse the other dwarves. 

Bilbo tried again.

“Thank you, for trying to help, with the trolls - and not letting them rip me apart.”

Thorin grunted again, but, still irritated at Gandalf’s choice for number fourteen, followed up with, “And I’ll thank you not to go bumbling in the middle of a lot of trolls again. What’s the point of a burglar in constant need of rescue?”

Having apologized half a dozen times to the party and had it been accepted by all but Thorin, Bilbo snapped. “If your nephews hadn’t allowed a great stupid troll to walk off with four of the ponies, then I shouldn’t have had to try to sneak within their camp to begin with!”

“If you were any sort of half decent burglar, freeing four ponies could not have presented a problem! Instead, what are you - a spare cook, when we have Bombur, a voice chirping questions when we have Fili and Kili, or another sack to pile on the back of a pony!” Thorin’s reply was a growl, and even as he said it, he knew his words were unworthy of him. The hobbit was a soft thing, true, but Thorin could not rage against every being in Middle Earth who had an easier life than him, especially one offering what help he could. 

“You showed up on my doorstep for help, King Thorin, not the other way around! I know I am not the might warrior-burglar-hero you wanted for aid on your quest, but at least I volunteer to do my bit instead of brooding over a scrap of parchment while my kin and companions cobble together a bit of comfort in the wilderland!”

The Burglar turned away from Thorin to fiddle with something in the shadows on his far side, and Thorin bit back another reply. Ire aside, driving away the Burglar would do the Company little good; a King must keep his head and his tongue in check. Instead, Thorin settled for staring past the ember’s glow, glancing now and again at the hobbit. HIs back was still toward Thorin as he fussed with something - something aromatic and savory, that he now held over the banked coals.

Weighing his choices carefully after several minutes of silence, and that smell tickling his nose, he eventually decided to speak again. Better some conversation at all then the hours of the second watch ticking away in silence until he had to rouse Kili and Nori for their watch.

“What is that you have in the fire, Burglar?”

“Why would you care what the spare cook is up to, Majesty?” the hobbit bit back. 

Thorin rubbed a hand over his eyes and pinched his nose.

“The comment was unworthy of me, Master Baggins; Gandalf has chosen you, and you have agreed to come and provide your services. My frustrations get the better of me, from time to time.”

It was not an apology, but Bilbo knew the other well enough to know that it was as close as he would get to civil words from the dwarf who doubted him so. Discussing the snack he was toasting would be at least a safe topic.

“I thought that a midnight snack might be welcome on our shared watch. Hours may pass slowly and conversation may flag, but well cooked food is a comfort to all.”

“More of you baked plums?” 

“Not quite,” Bilbo said, and turned enough to pass Thorin one of the sticks he was toasting with. “Go on, take a bite.”

Thorin breathed in the sweet and smoky smell, and took a bite. It was salty and oozy and then sweet - a complex mouthful for a rough camp, and more than he had expected from the Burglar’s midnight snack roasted over the fire. 

“Mind you don’t swallow the stone,” said Bilbo, touching his own snack before hurriedly withdrawing his fingers and waving them to cool the burnt ends. “Unless dwarves care for those. Myself, I always saved them for sling stones or planting.”

Thorin took another bite before asking what precisely he was eating.

“Plum, baked on the coals, then wrapped in some slivers of cheese and some of the this strips of ham I saved from yesterday’s luncheon, toasted to melt. My mother used to make something similar for a nosh before a summer party - grilled though, and not always with plums. Salty and sweet, just right to whet the appetite!” 

Another few moments of silence, then, “What do you think of it?”

Thorin had finished the snack off his stick, and had carefully licked the juice off his fingers. 

“It is bright and sweet and warm,” he said. “Tasty.” 

“Bright and warm,” repeated BIlbo, “like sunlight.”

“Yes,” said Thorin. “Like sunlight.”  
The Burglar - Master Baggins - had offered Thorin a smile at that, and Thorin had unbent his face from his scowl in what might be considered an acknowledgment of shared experience, but certainly not a smile.

Their conversation had flagged after that, except for the Burglar passing Thorin more of the toasted plums and Thorin accepting them. Each had eaten half a dozen, and Bilbo toasted a few more for their relief when they woke them up for third watch. Kili exclaimed at the treat, and Fili grumped the next morning until he had sworn off midnight snacks for the remainder of the journey. Still, it was the first time they had come close to a real conversation, and Thorin would remember.

* * * * * * *

Thorin opened his eyes and shifted up, bracing his back against the tree. The rest of company was strung out along the path, placing bedrolls parallel to one another and huddled with brothers and cousins. The Burglar, his fussy backpack lost in the mountains and the toadsticker he picked up from the trolls at his side, looked from one pile to another, unsure where to set his own bedroll.

“Master Baggins - Bilbo!” Thorin’s voice cut clear and sharp and rough through the muddle of the trees. “Rest yourself here. I would tell you more of Erebor.” 

Bilbo smiled as he made his way towards Thorin, and Thorin’s face unbent again into the beginnings of a smile.


	2. The Smell of Sweat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Smelly and tired in Mirkwood, Bilbo thinks back to how he got used to the smell of Dwarf sweat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the very, very long delay. It seems that I only get in the mood to write when I'm home sick.
> 
> Unbeta'd; apologies for any mistakes.

A row of unwashed dwarves, strung along the forest path, sent out a bouquet of oil, food, musk, fear, anxiousness, pony hair, honey, and sweat. Bilbo, settling into his bedroll, looked about. Fili and Kili had the barest whispers of a fire going beyond Thorin’s body, while the Brothers Ri tended a similar tiny flame at the end of the pack. Bombur was snoring already, and the Company was quiet and tense in the gloom of Mirkwood. Bilbo breathed in as he turned to speak to Thorin, and wondered, briefly, how he had so quickly become accustomed to the smell of Dwarvish sweat.

* * * * * *

It had been in his nose practically since his contract was signed, of course. Even in the warm, Dwarves seemed to wrap themselves in layer upon layer of armor and cloth, and in the spring and summer sun, the aroma of hot Dwarf and hot pony filled Bilbo’s nose. When the wargs and orcs had sent their ponies running, and the company ran pell-mell through rocks and rolled into the cave, Bilbo could also smell his own sweat and fear, rising sharply from beneath his own layers.

Working through the crevice and into Rivendell, the smell that rose from the hard-travelling Dwarves was thrown sharply against the scent of the greenery and carven stone of the hidden valley and the clean bodies of the Elves. Although Bilbo was somewhat in awe of the Elves, he couldn’t help but think it was almost indecent, how unflappable and otherworldly and . . . and unsmelly they were. They fascinated him, but it was not a comfortable fascination.

Elves did not seem like the kind of people who would show up on a Hobbit’s doorstep and ask for help. 

At dinner, Bilbo found himself quite content to be surrounded by the Company, and the familiar, if rather strong, odor of Dwarf sweat. He ate the Elves’ food readily, even as Dori tried and failed to get his youngest brother to taste the green food. Bofur’s feet were a bit much, but the look on Elrond’s face!

Bilbo found himself privy to Thorin’s council with Elrond and Gandalf, which shocked him - but he was pleased to learn of Moon Letters and the hidden message. These were trick letters much more satisfying than writing in lemon juice and holding passed notes near the fire! He strained to get a better look at them, but Thorin swept the map away as soon as was polite, as if nervous of other eyes seeing it. Bilbo failed to understand why Thorin had allowed Balin to bring Bilbo along at all, unless he wanted another pair of eyes about when consulting with the Elf. Still, Thorin didn’t lash out, merely stomped out with his map held close; an improvement to the entirety of the Company grabbing up arms when Elrond and his men-at-arms returned to their home.

Bilbo enjoyed his time in Rivendell, the gardens, speaking with Elrond, the sculptures and the paths, the beauty of the rivers. He only had one really bad moment (not including the desire to stay battling with his desire to continue on), and that was when the Company decided it was time to clean up and relieve themselves of the smell of sweat.

It was Balin who asked Bilbo if he wanted to come along to the baths, and BIlbo expected that Balin meant to be kind. Balin had offered explanations when necessary, given Bilbo the history and the stories he required to puzzle the bits of the quest together, gave encouragement and instruction on staying on his pony, and basic advice about wielding his letter-opener in battle.

Balin was not a Hobbit, for all his kindnesses, and he did not expect Bilbo to freeze and back away from the Dwarves, already stripped down to their braies and beyond, splashing into the great sculptural fountain.

To begin with, he was fairly sure that this was not actually a system of baths.

To end with, he was not expecting quite so communal a bathing experience. Surely, with their layers of mail and plate and coat and shirt, Dwarves would not be comfortable exposing their skin, their chest, their bums, their - their branch and berries to one another? 

It wasn’t that hobbits never bathed together - even the wealthy houses, like the Bagginses, Tooks, and Brandybucks tended to have communal bathing rooms near the water closets, while the less well off hobbits might use a bathhouse or even a stream. But the communal baths were a family affair - children and parents, occasional grandparents or extended family in a larger system like the Great Smials. 

Not giving an entire traveling troupe the opportunity to size up your eggs and sausage. 

Balin had already stripped off his great curly-toed boots, and was folding his rich red robe onto a bench when he looked up to see Bilbo edging away.

“Why, what’s the matter, laddie? You seemed right eager to get a wash.” 

Bilbo’s hands flapped uselessly and he dropped his cake of soap. 

“There are just - it rather seems, you know, that the, uh, baths are rather crowded, and I would be just as happy, really, to wait until -”

“Watch out, Mr. Baggins,” rumbled up Thorin’s voice from behind him. 

Bilbo spun to see Thorin shrugging out of his massive fur coat and unbuckling the massive belt that held his surcoat close over his mail. 

“Oh - Thorin - we were just going to -” 

“Joining the boys for a bath as well, Thorin, lad? It’ll feel good to get all that muck out of your boots, eh? Well, come and jump in when you’re ready boys!” 

Balin dropped the last of his clothes and headed into the fountain, leaving Thorin and Bilbo alone.

Bilbo kept his eyes up as Thorin continued to disrobe, keeping his towels held firmly to his chest.

“If you are worried about anyone looking at your diamonds and chisel, Master Burglar, remember that in a Dwarvish bath, you can only look if you’ve caught someone else looking. So do not get caught.”

“That - I was not - you cannot believe that I intended!” 

Thorin stood and looked down onto Bilbo’s face, who was now eye-to-hairy-chest with the Dwarf.

“Of course, if you do get caught looking, it is also considered an invitation. So be very careful. And you may want to turn around now.”

Thorin strode off to the baths, and Bilbo’s incoherent bubbling over stopped as he was forced to look away - he did not want Thorin to catch him looking - or think that he was looking -or - wait, an invitation?

Oh, how he wished he was at home in Bag End!

But he wasn’t, and he had to get clean, and all he had to do was not look.

Bilbo kept his braies on for the whole walk to the fountain, until he had clambered up to the lip of the fountain, slid them down his over-large feet to drop onto his towels, and turned to meet a wave of water splash in his face.

“Watch out, Master Baggins! Incoming!”

Kili’s warning gave Bilbo enough time to shield his face as the Dwarf followed up his brother’s cannonball with one of his own. Thoroughly soaked, Bilbo sputtered through the mass of bodies to sit with Balin in a sunny spot.

Balin cleared some of his white hair from his face as Bilbo sat next to him and began lathering up. 

“How’re you doing, there, lad? Thorin did not scare you off from your bath, I see.”

“No, not from the bath. He did, um, remind me that Dwarves, or rather, would not -”

“Do not fret yourself with whatever he said to shake you up, Bilbo, he likes to shake people up sometimes. Thorin spent far too long in his own head in the last hundred years or so, and even when he makes a bad joke I take it as a good sign. What’d he do, warn you about eyeing up the Royal Jewels?”

“I don’t know why he would assume that I wanted to - of all the outlandish, accusations - I am a Baggins of Bag End, not some sort of peeping Proudfoot leering out of the bushes, and -”

The tirade was interrupted by a splash as another Dwarf catapulted into the largest pool, and Thorin’s voice came across the water. 

“Avert your eyes, Mr. Baggins!”

 

After the baths, Bilbo did not interact with Thorin again until they had been in Rivendell for several days. He overheard Gandalf and Elrond speaking - he was not eavesdropping, Bagginses did not eavesdrop - when he half turned, only to be met with Thorin. He had been attempting to avoid losing his composure or his temper with Thorin for his teasing, considering what a long distance they had to travel together. It would be a boon if the Dwarf could manage not to be quite so harsh with him, but at least Bilbo would keep his temper. 

And as annoyed as he was, it was hard to ignore how Thorin looked. 

Framed by the dramatic light and shadows of Rivendell, Bilbo got a glimpse of what Balin had spoken of in the hills; here was a Dwarf he could follow; here was a Dwarf the could be King. WIth his hair unbound around his shoulders, two braids framing his face, blue eyes sparkling like gems in the stony wall of his face, Bilbo could see it now. He could imagine a crown on those brows, and a Queen on his arm, rich fur robes around his shoulders and an army at his command. 

If only he was less of a prat.

Bilbo turned back hurriedly, not wanting to stare, and continued to accidentally overhear the council, and hear for the first time of the sickness that plagued Durin’s line.

Madness? Madness that took not only Thorin’s grandfather, but his father as well - were they being led by a madman. BIlbo scrunched his nose in thought, before turning back to Thorin. He now seemed very far away. 

“What did Elrond mean - madness? What madness inflicts your family?”

The scent of Dwarf sweat rose again in Bilbo’s nostrils as Thorin stepped close. 

He still seemed far away, and barely cognizant of the Hobbit before him.

“It is the gold sickness that affects our line. When it strikes, everything fades before lust for gold - duty, family, honor, love. It is also called the dragon sickness, for they are afflicted, too, and some say that the Dwarvish love of gold attracts the wyrms. It is what felled my grandfather, and we assume what led my father to his fate.”

Thorin turned sharply and looked down at Bilbo.

“Well, another Dwarvish secret dripped into your ears, Burglar. Will you leave us now that you know of our curse? Even if it has not gripped me yet, it does not mean that the fate of Durin’s Line will not catch me up eventually.”

“I did not sign onto this mission to be teased with warnings in the bath and scared with tales of dark fate, Thorin Oakenshield. I have signed your contract, and it will take more than ominous words to scare me off.”

That seemed to give Thorin pause. 

“I did not mean - that is, as you say, Master Burglar. We leave in the morning.”

 

It was a bare few hours later that Thorin lead them from Rivendell, into the mountains and toward the rising sun. 

“Master Baggins! I suggest you keep up.”

* * * * *

"You seem to be lost in thought, Bilbo. Thinking of Bag End?"

"Not at all, Thorin - just thinking how we could all use a bath."

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is unbeta'd; please forgive any mistakes.  
> I am not yet sure if this will be a oneshot or continued; I suppose it depends on how hard the Bagginshield bug has bitten me.  
> Thank you for reading!


End file.
